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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24741079">Genie in a Beer Bottle</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellatemple/pseuds/bellatemple'>bellatemple</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Haven (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Claustrophobia, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Isolation, Sensory Deprivation, Trapped, these tags make it sound way more hardcore than it is</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 04:01:21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,822</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24741079</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellatemple/pseuds/bellatemple</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Haven PD's newest recruit is troubled, and has a bone to pick with Duke. A bone which will make for one of Duke's worst nights on record. . . .</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>32</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Genie in a Beer Bottle</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Set in a very amorphous time frame around season three. </p>
<p>It's possible that quarantining alone for three months has gotten to me, yes. :P</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Duke was very used to being harassed by cops. It didn't happen quite as often these days, now that Nathan had Audrey to rein him in, but he still regularly came home to Haven PD hanging out by his slip, waiting to make him a person of interest in some case or other. </p>
<p>They didn't usually bother him at his legitimate business, though. </p>
<p>"Officer Dougherty," Duke greeted as the uniformed man came up to the bar. "What can I get you?" Duke made it his business to know all of Nathan's people on sight. Dougherty was a new recruit, fresh out of the academy. With a fresh chip on his shoulder and superiority complex, it seemed, judging by his tight lips and swagger. </p>
<p>"Crocker," Dougherty said. "How's <i>business?</i>"</p>
<p>Duke made a show of looking around the bar. "Doing swell." He turned a sharp grin on Dougherty. "I mean, it's no Taco Tuesday, but I can't complain."</p>
<p>"Can't you though."  Dougherty leaned on the bar and glowered back. "You know, half of all new restaurants fail."</p>
<p>Duke nodded once, leaning in as though to share a secret. "Then it's a good thing this is a bar." He straightened. "Now. Are you going to order something? Or are you just here to chat?"</p>
<p>Dougherty stared at him, clearly thinking he was intimidating. It was almost cute. "I've got my eye on you, Crocker."</p>
<p>"I'm terrified. You do know I'm friends with your boss, right? Well. Mostly."</p>
<p>Dougherty narrowed his eyes. Duke sighed. </p>
<p>"Look, do you have a warrant? Or maybe a drink order? Because if not, you're loitering and I have every right to ask you to leave."</p>
<p>Dougherty let out a little frustrated growl. It vibrated his peach fuzz mustache, which was almost kind of adorable. In an obnoxious sort of way. "I get my way, Crocker, you'll be put away for a hundred years."</p>
<p>"It's good to have goals, kid." Duke spotted a couple of empties down the bar and headed for them. "I've got a business to run, though. So shoo."  He grabbed the neck of the bottle nearest to him, throwing a smirk over his shoulder at the baby-cop — and the world went abruptly sideways. For several moments, absolutely nothing made sense. </p>
<p>When the world righted again, it still didn't. </p>
<p>"Fuck me," Duke muttered, staring around at the brown glass prison he now seemed to be trapped in. It was perfectly circular, just wider than his outstretched arms, and reeked of beer. "Nathan's new recruit is troubled." </p>
<p>He looked up. The walls curved in far above his head, then stretched even farther until they ended in a round opening. He could see daylight through the opening, and faintly through the glass around him, but no details. Still, it wasn't hard to work out what must have happened. </p>
<p>He was trapped in a beer bottle. </p>
<p>"I really hate this town."</p>
<hr/>
<p>Duke pounded on the glass until his hands ached, shouted towards the opening above him until he went hoarse and the air went thin, to no avail. He couldn't hear anything from outside the bottle, and he couldn't see more than vague shapes through the glass, so he had to assume no one could see or hear him, either. He tried his phone, but without much hope. While it told him he had a signal, he got nothing but static trying to call out. He eventually resorted to throwing himself bodily at the side of the bottle, hoping to tip it over, but he didn't have enough space to build up any speed, and all he got for his efforts was a sore shoulder. </p>
<p>After about half an hour, according to his phone, he gave up and slumped to the rounded floor, pulling his knees in to avoid the thin pools of leftover beer and spit around the edges. </p>
<p>This was a trouble. Alright. He knew from troubles. This was old hat by now. Maybe he couldn't contact anyone, but he hadn't exactly been alone in the bar when it hit him. Audrey and Nathan would know exactly where and when he disappeared. He just had to sit tight, and they would find him. Get him out. Read Dougherty the riot act and then fire him. </p>
<p>Maybe not that last part. Firing someone because they had a trouble was kind of tacky. Even if they <i>did</i> use it to trap your friends in improbable situations. </p>
<p>Anyway. He just needed to be patient. He was good at patience. He was good at being alone. His whole life was being patient while alone. </p>
<p>That beer smell was really starting to get to him. </p>
<p>He crossed his legs and tried not to think about why the floor was sticky. Or how the hard curve of the glass floor wasn't doing his spine any favors. Or the likelihood that the beer smell would <i>actually</i> suffocate him before Audrey and Nathan could — </p>
<p>He didn't think about any of those things. He didn't think about anything at all because he was going to meditate. His mind was empty. Breathe in through the nose, out through the mouth. He wasn't lightheaded. In through the — you know what, maybe in through the mouth, too. And out. Just sit and breathe and let himself be as empty as the bowl. As empty as this bottle. Which wasn't empty, because there were still all these little puddles of beer and backwash and <i>him</i>, he was in this bottle, goddammit, he was trapped like a goddamn ship and even if he could somehow scale the sheer glass walls, his shoulders were probably too broad to make it through the opening at the top, which meant the only way out would be to <i>break</i> the damn thing —</p>
<p>He didn't entirely realize he was going to punch the wall until his fist made contact. It did significantly more damage to his hand than it did to the wall. </p>
<p>Shit. Okay. He curled over his hand, hissing curses and sucking air through his teeth. He needed to stay calm. There was plenty of air in here, even if it did smell bad. And the beer probably wasn't going to do anything to him, really, it was just gross. He would take six showers when he got out of here and wash his clothes on the hottest possible setting and hang them in the sun for four days, and let Nathan make all the "finding yourself at the bottom of a bottle" jokes he liked. And he'd be fine. </p>
<p>Dougherty probably wouldn't report his disappearance. He was just the sort to freak out and run. But Tracy would, when she came out of the back and didn't find him. Or one of the regulars. Assuming they didn't decide he'd just gotten called out to meet a supplier. Or that he'd gone to talk to Audrey at the station. Why the hell didn't he keep more of a regular schedule? Around here he needed people to <i>notice</i> when he was gone. </p>
<p>He checked his phone. It'd only been five minutes since he'd last looked. </p>
<p>He slid back far enough to lean his head against the wall, his knees bent over the hump of the floor. He could feel beer seeping into his pants and found himself thinking about molecules. Did he have less of them or whatever now that he was small? If so, where did the rest of them go? Or was he now super dense? </p>
<p>Nathan would have some joke here about him being super dense. </p>
<p>"C'mon, man," he said, looking up at the opening above him. "Come find me already. I'm going crazy enough to miss your <i>jokes</i>." </p>
<p>Nothing changed. There were no extra shadows to indicate someone looking at or picking up this particular beer bottle. He wondered if it was the one he'd gone to pick up. Was he still sitting on the bar at the Gull? Or was this just some giant, mystical beer-bottle space? Maybe the <i>whole Gull</i> had turned into a beer bottle. </p>
<p>That one didn't seem likely.</p>
<p>He tipped his head back and closed his eyes and gave himself a moment to actually panic. Yes, okay, he was terrified. He was trapped in an unfamiliar place with no supplies and no way out. <i>This was terrifying</i>. He was totally allowed a little bit of panic before he went back to figuring out what to do. </p>
<p>Except that was part of the problem: there <i>wasn't</i> anything he could do. He had contingency plan after contingency plan. He'd figured out how to get word to Nathan and Audrey from more than fifty years in the past! But if he couldn't get anyone's attention on the outside, and he couldn't bust through the glass or even apparently knock the bottle <i>over</i> — </p>
<p>He had nothing. The sum total of what he had were the clothes on his back and a way to tell how much time <i>hadn't</i> passed. </p>
<p>. . . Wait. Actually. </p>
<p>He dug into his pockets. The sum total of what he had were the clothes on his back, his service-less phone, his pocket knife, his wallet, a set of lock picks in his shoe, and his gun. </p>
<p>He weighed the gun in his hand and looked at the glass wall in front of him, trying to decide how likely he was to get himself killed trying to shoot his way out. If he assumed this was an actual beer bottle, that glass was relatively thick, in comparison to his current size. He'd be risking a hell of a lot of ricochet without much possibility of success. </p>
<p>He flipped off the safety and drew bead on the circle of light high above him. At this size, the bullet would be a speck of dust in comparison to anyone outside, but maybe if he was very lucky, someone would notice it and investigate. </p>
<p>The sound of the gun going off was absurdly loud in the small space, the echo literally deafening and nearly <i>blinding</i> in its intensity. Duke dropped into a ball after firing and pressed himself tight against the side of the bottle, in case the bullet came back down again. When what felt like a couple minutes had passed and nothing seemed to be crashing down on him, he slowly unfolded and looked up. </p>
<p>Nothing. Well. It'd been worth a try. </p>
<p>He sat back down, pulling off his shirt and bunching it up beneath him to give himself at least the illusion of a cushion, and resigned himself to waiting again. Meditation clearly wasn't going to work since he had the focus of a goldfish right now, so he pulled out his phone and took a look at what games it came preloaded with. He didn't usually opt for mindless distractions, but it wasn't like he had much else at the moment. </p>
<p>He was on his fifteenth round of Snake when the light in the bottle suddenly dimmed. He jumped to his feet, a shout on his lips, only to have the floor shift out from under him. </p>
<p>For exactly one glorious second, he thought maybe the trouble was reversing, and he was getting out. </p>
<p>Instead, he was flung roughly to the floor as the bottle swung in long arcs back and forth. A sound like a gong rattled the space on the end of each swing, and Duke pressed his hands over his already abused ears. He stayed low; he had damn good sea legs, but part of that was knowing when the movement of your boat — or bottle — was going to keep putting you on your ass. It wasn't like he had anywhere to go just now, anyway. The swinging stopped almost as abruptly as it began with one final <i>clang!</i>. Duke had just long enough to start to sit up before the water started pouring in. </p>
<p>It was like trying to stand under Niagara Falls. The water <i>flattened</i> him, knocking the air from his lungs and drenching him instantly. The bottle filled quickly, and Duke found himself tossed about in an angry current, unsure which way was up and unable to coordinate his limbs enough to get himself there even if he could. Then just as quickly as it flooded, the water drained away again. Duke found himself sucked into the bottleneck, wedging awkwardly and painfully into place, but at least his head was above water now. He took a single, heaving breath, scrabbling at the glass, and the world shuddered sharply, then upended again. The last thing he was aware of was the bottom of the bottle rushing at his face, and a tremendous, brain-rattling <i>clatter</i>. And then it went dark.</p>
<hr/>
<p>And stayed dark. </p>
<p>Duke woke coughing, choking out a lungful of water. He was still in the bottle; he could feel the cool glass all around him, though it was concave now, curling up around him where he lay, stretched out flat. The bottle was on its side, he guessed. He stood slowly, reaching with his hand to make sure he didn't smack his head against the glass. Again. Judging by the way his head hurt, he'd already smacked it at least a couple times, from multiple angles. There was more of that gonging noise around him, softer now, which he realized was the <i>clink</i> of another bottle, only sounding deep and overpowering because of his relative size. It seemed to come from all around him, and after several baffled moments, he finally came up with a theory about what had just happened. </p>
<p>Someone had cleared him off the bar. Rinsed the bottle. And recycled him. </p>
<p>No one would ever find him now. </p>
<p>Duke <i>lost. His. Shit.</i> </p>
<p>He screamed. Pounded the glass until his knuckles split and bled. Kicked and yowled and flung his now-drenched and useless cell phone in turn at the walls. That wasn't enough, though. Fury and terror still ripping through him, he grabbed his gun and used it to smash over and over into the glass. The bottle shifted with another of those agonizing clatters, but Duke didn't stop. </p>
<p>He couldn't stop. He only had himself to count on. The last several months with Audrey were a flash in the pan, an anomaly; he'd only <i>ever</i> had himself. </p>
<p>And Duke Crocker did not give up without a fight. Even when his enemy was an oversized beer bottle. </p>
<p>He brought the gun down again and there was a sharp, high <i>crack</i>. </p>
<p>And Duke saw white. </p>
<p>When he came to again, his right leg wasn't working. He thought at first he must have cut himself, that he'd broken the bottle enough to leave it in shards, but when he pressed into the center of the pain, in the crease where his thigh met his torso, he met only the cold damp of wet clothes. The pain was deeper than that, living in the muscle, the joint. </p>
<p>He'd broken his wrist once, in grade school. Pulling some stupid shit on the monkey bars at recess. He didn't remember the pain exactly, but he remembered that sick feeling of something <i>wrong</i>, something he'd done his best to hide from his classmates and his teachers until his arm swelled up so much he couldn't make a fist anymore. This felt like that, but he couldn't for the life of him figure out <i>why</i>. Why was it hurting now, and not the last time he woke up? What could he possibly have done to his hip while stuck in a stationary bottle? </p>
<p>He felt along the glass, looking for anything he might have injured himself on, and his fingertips encountered a deep, sharp divot in the surface where he'd been striking at it. He ran his fingers along its edges. He could picture it in his head, the matching divot in his hip joint. </p>
<p>He couldn't break the bottle, he realized. Not without breaking <i>himself</i> too. If he was still in here when the bottle reached the recycling plant, he was going to be <i>annihilated.</i> </p>
<p>He slumped back to the ground. He'd lost. Fucking <i>Dougherty</i> had managed what any number of mobsters and pirates and cops and damned <i>Interpol agents</i> had failed to do over the years: he'd defeated Duke Crocker. </p>
<p>There was no telling how long he lay there, staring into the black. Long enough to start to see things, little dancing lights, firework bursts of impossible colors, shifting and distorting faces. Tessellations of geometric shapes that branched across his vision, the misfiring spasms of understimulated neurons. He'd seen them before. Had drifted voluntarily in a sensory deprivation tank once, while docked in Argentina. He wondered, if he lay here and watched them long enough, would he even notice when the end came? </p>
<p>". . . Duke? . . ." </p>
<p>Now he was hearing things, too. A strange, deep voice that seemed to creep up through his skull rather than his ears, calling his name. </p>
<p>"Duke, are you back here?" </p>
<p>He recognized it with a start. Audrey. He knew that cadence anywhere. </p>
<p>"I don't think he's here either." </p>
<p>Audrey, looking for him. That was a nice thought. </p>
<p>"Yeah, I'll check." </p>
<p>Audrey <i>leaving</i>. Which wasn't. </p>
<p>Duke sat up the best he could, sucking in air through his teeth when his hip protested. "Audrey?" he tried. His voice scraped his throat, and he coughed, then shouted as loud as he could. "Audrey!" </p>
<p>Nothing. Duke started to slump again, then: </p>
<p>". . . Hello?" </p>
<p><i>She could hear him</i>. </p>
<p>Barely, probably. He was, what, a couple inches tall right now, and the neck of the bottle would act as a dampener. It was like shouting into the wrong end of a megaphone. He needed more volume than he could get with his lungs alone, and he didn't dare try knocking on the glass again. </p>
<p>He fumbled his hand against his chest, finding his whistle and bringing it to his mouth. He took a deep breath, clapped both hands over his ears, and <i>blew</i>. </p>
<p>"What the hell is that?" </p>
<p>Better. Duke dragged himself closer to the neck of the bottle, whistle still clamped in his teeth. He let out three short, sharp whistles, then one longer one. It wasn't a full S.O.S., but he'd run out of air, pain and exhaustion leaving him breathless. A strange, distorted light appeared above him — Audrey's flashlight, filtered and refracted through the bottles on top of his. He kept blowing his whistle without waiting for her to answer, pausing only long enough to gasp in more air. Slowly, the light cleared. Bottles clattered against his and he winced each time, waiting for the blow that would widen the crack he'd already made, that would maybe take his leg off completely, but the glass held. </p>
<p>"Duke!" </p>
<p>The bottle shifted abruptly, and Duke slid back down to the bottom with a strangled cry, his right leg crumpling beneath him. The light flared bright. He held up his hand to block it, squinting through stars and after images. He could make out the outline of the bottle's label, but not much else. </p>
<p>"Oh god," Audrey said. The light shifted so it wasn't quite in his eyes anymore, and he felt her set the bottle down on a hard surface with a <i>thunk</i>. "Not you too." </p>
<p>"Me too?" he grumbled. "How many people did that jackass put away?" </p>
<p>"You're number five." Audrey crouched down. He could just make out the blurred features of her face. She was the first person — or <i>thing</i> — he'd been able to see or hear outside the bottle in who knew how long. </p>
<p>So this was how Nathan felt whenever she touched him. </p>
<p>"Do you know who's doing this?" she was asking. Duke shoved himself up as best he could and slumped against the wall of the bottle closest to her, his hand flat on the glass. She put her pinky up against it from the other side. It was the size of his entire head. "Whose trouble this is?" </p>
<p>"Dougherty. He said something about putting me away and then . . . bam." </p>
<p>"Dougherty," Audrey repeated. It was hard to tell at this scale, but Duke thought she was frowning. "Wait, <i>Aaron</i> Dougherty? Haven PD?" </p>
<p>Duke nodded. "I keep telling you guys. There's a reason I don't like cops." </p>
<p>"I don't know," Audrey said. It took Duke a few moments to realize she wasn't talking to him. He squinted through the glass, trying to see around her, but all he could see was empty space. And her. "What if it goes wrong?" </p>
<p>"What if <i>what</i> goes wrong?" Duke asked, trying to sit up straight again, and getting what felt like an ice pick in his hip joint for his trouble. "Who are you talking to?" </p>
<p>Nathan. It had to be Nathan. Maybe she was on her phone. </p>
<p>"You can't hear him," Audrey said, sounding faintly horrified, but not exactly surprised. "And <i>you</i> can't see him." She sighed. "Great." </p>
<p>"Audrey," Duke said, slapping his hand into the glass. "What if what doesn't work?" </p>
<p>"Breaking the glass." </p>
<p>"<i>Don't!</i>" Duke jerked upright, then gagged as his vision whited out again at the pain. "Don't — tried that already." </p>
<p>"What's wrong?" Audrey demanded, leaning in even closer. Her voice rattled through him, making the sick feeling in his stomach worse. "You're hurt!" </p>
<p>Duke looked around, then pointed to the starburst crack about halfway up the bottle from his position. "If the glass breaks," he said, "so do I." </p>
<p>Audrey let out a hurt noise and pressed her hand to her mouth. "It won't work," she said after a moment, glancing over her shoulder. "The trouble's got him tied to the bottle somehow. We'd only end up hurting him." </p>
<p>Duke leaned his head miserably against the glass. "So I'm stuck here," he said. "Until you get Dougherty to let me out. That's just —" His sarcasm ran out of gas. He groaned and closed his eyes. "Fuck." </p>
<p>Audrey picked up the bottle again. Duke shot her a frown, then closed his eyes again sharply when his nausea doubled. She was holding him up so she could keep an eye on him while she walked, and the motion made her bob and weave sickeningly in his vision. "Don't worry," she told him. "Nathan's already tracking him down. We'll get you out." </p>
<p>Duke nodded, swallowing thickly. "I know," he told her, pressing his hand to the glass again, wishing he could hang onto her instead. He let out a pained laugh. "It's been a really long day." </p>
<p>"You're safe now," Audrey said. She picked up her pace, judging by the increased jostling of the bottle. "I'm putting you in my apartment. No one will be able to get to you there." </p>
<p>"What?" Duke's eyes shot open again, motion sickness be damned. "Audrey, no! Take me with you!" </p>
<p>Audrey set him down again, pressing her pinkie to the glass. "I can't. The bottle's already cracked, Duke." </p>
<p>Duke pressed both hands to the glass, his breath coming in short pants. He knew she was right. He knew being left somewhere undisturbed was his best chance at survival right now. But goddammit, he did not do trapped well. </p>
<p>"Audrey," he said, not even caring that it came out in a whimper. "<i>Please</i>." </p>
<p>"Is it more comfortable upright, or on its side?" Audrey asked, like he wasn't begging her not to leave him. "I can put you on the bed so you won't roll off onto the floor. Leave the TV on for you — no. I guess that wouldn't work, would it." </p>
<p>He couldn't hear the TV. He couldn't see her bed, or her windows, or anything else other than <i>her</i>, and she was going to leave him behind. For god only knew how long. </p>
<p>"Are you hungry?" she asked. "I think I have crackers or something, I could crumble them into the bottle." </p>
<p>"No." Duke slumped, careful of his hip, and looked away. "No, I'm fine. I'll just. Wait here." </p>
<p>"Duke." He thought she might have tried to say it softly, but every noise right now seemed to vibrate his whole being. He looked back at her; she had all four fingers pressed to the glass by his shoulders now. "We'll be fast." </p>
<p>Duke nodded, not trusting himself to speak. </p>
<p>And then she was gone. </p>
<p>And he was alone again.</p>
<hr/>
<p>He'd told Nathan once that he liked being alone. He hadn't lied. You didn't travel the world on a ship by yourself without being comfortable with your own company. But there was an ocean of difference between choosing to live that way and being forced to. </p>
<p>Plus, you know. On the <i>Cape Rouge</i> he at least had books. </p>
<p>But Audrey and Nathan were on the case now. Right now, while he sat here, they were probably in the Bronco, heading into town. Hunting down Dougherty and making him let everyone he'd trapped free. And he wasn't the only one dealing with this. Audrey had said there were four other people, though he didn't know who. He wondered if they were in bottles, too, beer or soda or — did it have to be glass? Or bottle-shaped? Maybe someone was stuck in a tube of lotion, or baby food jar. He could definitely be worse off than he was right now. </p>
<p>He imagined what might have happened if he'd been reaching to pour a drink instead of clean up when Dougherty whammied him. He could have drowned in bourbon before Dougherty even left the Gull. How many people had that happened to, over the years? Troubles ran in families, stretched back centuries. People who pissed off Dougherty's ancestors could have ended up in beer barrels or teapots. Canteens and ink pots. </p>
<p>Duke suddenly had a mental image of an old root cellar, shelves lined with canning jars full of people instead of preserves. He'd heard something about that, hadn't he, years ago. An old scary story told around a campfire when he and Nathan were kids. The witch in the woods who collected naughty children, sealing them up in bottles and lanterns. He hadn't thought much of the story at the time; he was the very epitome of a "naughty" kid, always had been, and no witch or boogeyman had ever hunted him down. He'd never gotten any presents from Santa, either, but he'd never had any illusions <i>he</i> existed. Bad kids didn't get punished by magic, they didn't need to. The real world punished them plenty. </p>
<p>He tried to remember the story now. Had there been an answer there, how to get the kids back out? He didn't think so. Campfire stories were bleaker than that; the creeping dread was the whole point of telling them. The kids were just captured and stuck into bottles and put into her cupboard until she needed them. Until they'd — dissolved? Aged?  Fermented, maybe. </p>
<p>And then she'd drink them. </p>
<p>He was reasonably sure that part was just added color. Mostly. He couldn't picture Dougherty coming back to drink him down, anyway. And Audrey would fix this way before he was — </p>
<p>Ripe. </p>
<p>Duke shifted, biting back a whine at the pain in his hip. Then rolled his eyes at himself and let that whine rip. No one was here to hear him, after all. Audrey was long gone. Or — gone, at least. His only real indicator of time passing was the stiffness in his limbs, the damp of his clothes. The air in the bottle was close and humid, but not warm, and a shudder ran through him as he tried to stretch his good leg. He was freezing. His overshirt had disappeared at some point, probably when he'd gotten <i>rinsed</i>. It was clogging the utility sink drain in the back of the Gull right now. He had to assume it hadn't become full sized again after leaving the bottle. <i>That</i> he liked to think his staff would have noticed and reported. Somewhere down the line, some plumber was going to find a doll-sized, threadbare denim shirt stuck in a pipe and wonder what the hell had happened. </p>
<p>Or, since this was Haven, quietly file it away and try not to think about it later. </p>
<p>There was an idea. He should try to think about something — <i>anything</i> — else. </p>
<p>Duke had read <i>The Borrowers</i> as a kid, holed up in the library on a long cold weekend, somewhere between his dad dying and him learning how to scrape together enough cash to keep the heat running at home. He'd picked it up out of sheer boredom, but ended up devouring the whole series. He'd loved the way the Clock family made their home out of whatever scraps they could find, using postage stamps as wall art and thimbles as stew pots. They'd even made their own ship out of a teapot. He could be Duke Bottle, if the mouth of this thing were a bit wider, living in the drawer in Audrey's nightstand. Make himself a bed out of make-up sponges and socks, spend every night with her like he had when Lynette's trouble had targeted him. Only without being interrupted by a beating. Nathan could come over when he liked, but most days would just be him and Audrey and a home looking over the water, warm and cozy without a trouble left in the world. </p>
<p>Duke fell asleep, his strange, idle fantasy morphing into quiet dreams. In his mind, Audrey was with him, Audrey Bottle, and the beer bottle was decked out like Jeanie's, all lush brocades and overstuffed pillows. They climbed in and out on a rope ladder and explored the spaces between the Gull's walls, all the way down until the weathered wood turned to stone, then packed dirt, until they found themselves in a smuggler's sea cave full of treasure. And all the while, Duke could not for the life of him find a proper pair of pants. . . .</p>
<p>He woke to a sharp, wrenching motion, like a sleep-start on steroids, and for several moments had no idea where he was or what was happening. It still smelled like beer, though fainter now, less overpowering, and his clothes had dried stiff and itchy where they weren't pressed into the glass. Duke groaned and tried to dredge up the saliva to clear the foul taste from his mouth. He was thirsty and sore and he desperately had to pee. </p>
<p>He sat up without thinking and didn't bother to hold back his yowl when his hip reminded him in no uncertain terms that moving right now was a <i>bad idea</i>. </p>
<p>"Sorry!" Audrey was saying. "Oh god, I'm so sorry. We came in and you weren't moving and I thought —"</p>
<p>Duke nodded, waving off her apologies. "My fault. Slept funny." She was back and talking to him, so all things could be forgiven. Except maybe the part where he was still in the bottle. "Dougherty?" </p>
<p>"We found him. He's not bottling anyone else." </p>
<p>"That's . . . good," Duke said slowly. "Is he going to <i>unbottle</i> the rest of us?" </p>
<p>"He can't," Audrey said, much too calmly for Duke's tastes. His breath caught in his throat. He would be stuck in here forever. Audrey would stick him on a shelf, keep him like he was a pet. Or a houseplant. "But Nathan can." She'd talk to him for a little while, but she couldn't stay here and entertain him forever. She'd go away for longer and longer and leave Duke alone and by the time he starved to death he'd be so insane from lack of company that — </p>
<p>Hang on. </p>
<p>"Nathan can what?" </p>
<p>Audrey smiled faintly. "You're going to hate it." </p>
<p>"So something new and different for me." </p>
<p>The light dimmed, and Audrey vanished. The bottle rocked back and forth again, and a strange compulsion started to build in the back of Duke's mind. </p>
<p>The world tipped on its end. Duke lost the ability to track anything but the overwhelming urge to make <i>pancakes</i>.</p>
<hr/>
<p>"I hate this," Duke said. </p>
<p>"I know." Audrey rubbed his shoulder soothingly, leaning into his side to help keep him stable. His hip was still screaming at him; escaping from the bottle had not miraculously healed whatever the hell the crack had done to his body. As long as he stood still and put all his weight on his left leg, he could stay upright, but the moment he had to reach or shift in any way to his right, he ran the risk of going down. His hands hurt, too, his knuckles still split and swollen from beating at the glass. They needed cleaning and bandaging, but that would have to wait. </p>
<p>He'd say he wanted nothing more than to take a pile of painkillers and lie down somewhere soft, but the rules of this godforsaken trouble meant that there was very much something else that he wanted to do more right now. No matter how much it hurt.  </p>
<p>Duke sighed. "I need baking powder next." </p>
<p>Nathan put the little canister into his hand, wearing that faintly constipated expression that meant he felt guilty. Or at the very least uncomfortable. "It doesn't have to be a lot of pancakes," he said. </p>
<p>"You couldn't have wished for me to take a shower?" </p>
<p>"It had to be something he really wanted," Audrey said. Duke started to reach for the whisk, but she beat him to it. </p>
<p>"Only thing I could think of that wouldn't backfire," Nathan muttered. </p>
<p>"Speak for yourself." Duke glared into the mixing bowl, stirring the batter. "I can't believe your new rookie <i>actually turned me into a genie</i>." </p>
<p>"Djinn," Nathan said. </p>
<p>"<i>No.</i>" Duke managed to stop his manic pancake-making long enough to brandish the whisk at him. "Djinn are important figures in Arabic mythology. Dougherty turned me into a <i>genie</i>, a bastardized, Hollywood version of a bizarre harem fantasy. Though, just to be clear, I am not now, nor am I ever, going to call you 'Master'." </p>
<p>Nathan flushed and looked away. </p>
<p>"You couldn't have rubbed the bottle yourself?" Duke asked Audrey. She shook her head.</p>
<p>"I'm immune." </p>
<p>"Are the other four poor saps having to do something equally stupid, right now?" </p>
<p>"Three," Nathan said softly. </p>
<p>"One of the jars broke," Audrey said. "Before we could get to it." </p>
<p>Duke swallowed hard and went back to staring into the mixing bowl. "Who was it?" </p>
<p>"Belinda Carmichael." </p>
<p>"Damn." Duke sighed. "I liked her." </p>
<p>"Yeah." Nathan eyed the mixing bowl and handed Duke a measuring cup. "Pretty sure Kevin Holt is scrubbing his boyfriend's floor, though." </p>
<p>Duke blinked, his mouth creeping up in a smile. "Alright, fine. Making you pancakes is at least better than that." </p>
<p>"I'm just glad you're out," Audrey said, leaning her head on his shoulder. "Safe and sound and mostly unbroken." </p>
<p>"Me too." Duke stopped stirring and closed his eyes as he tilted his head to rest against hers. "Thank you so much for finding me." </p>
<p>He wanted to rest there for the next three weeks. Wrap her up in his arms and tell her all about his <i>Borrowers</i> dream and their big adventure. </p>
<p>"Don't forget the blueberries." </p>
<p>Just as soon as he finished fulfilling Nathan's stupid, stupid wish.</p>
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